


I can reach any star

by Phnx



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Empathic Will Graham, M/M, More like canon-typical gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-16 23:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13064637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phnx/pseuds/Phnx
Summary: Will is a human with unheard of empathic abilities.  Hannibal is a Betazoid whose telepathy is stunted due to childhood trauma.  It works, somehow.Alternatively: Hannigram--inspace!





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not that it's in any way plot relevant, but this fusion takes place in the Prime timeline of Star Trek, specifically in the late-TNG or early-DS9 era, after the Federation-Cardassian Treaty was signed but before the Dominion War. Knowledge of Star Trek probably isn't necessary to enjoy this fic, as it's pretty handwavy (science-what-science, continuity-what-continuity).
> 
> Thanks to RogueMarieL for suffering through my typo-ridden first draft and for nodding along when I first broached the idea.
> 
> This fic is completely written. I will have the other two parts up as soon as I finish editing them.

_\--Tattlecrime, Star Date 48313.7--_

_Never heard of Teyljar VI? Most of the galaxy is right there with you. Teyljar is a small binary system boasting three M-class planets, hidden away between Altair and Vega, and barely noticed by either of the two. It was colonized in the early days of the Federation and was largely forgotten by the main body of the Federation government shortly thereafter. The terrain of the three planets is widely varied--Teyljar V is as almost as hot and dry as Vulcan, Teyljar VII is nearly as frigid as the Breen homeworld and is covered with a solid layer of ice. Teyljar VI is hot like Teyljar V and wet like Teyljar VII--due to its swamp-like environment, the locals apparently nicknamed it “New Orleans II,” after an Earth city with a similar climate. The population of Teyljar V, VI, and VII consists almost entirely of humans and is known to be extremely insular, with very few cases emigration or immigration occurring._

_One of those cases of emigration was Special Agent Will Graham, the newest scent hound on FBII Director Jack Crawford’s team of forensic specialists. Graham is reliably at the scene of every seemingly unsolvable Federation crime, but this reporter questions whether he is there as an investigator--or as a perpetrator._

\--

Will looked out into the sea of stars and wondered about studying their movements, their light, their power. Maybe, in another life, that’s what he did. Maybe he traced patterns into the night sky, told stories of their heroes and their tragedies. Maybe he collected samples and extrapolated their origins and their futures from their present.

Maybe he did anything other than what he was doing now.

“I understand your concern, Director,” the captain was saying to Jack. “But there’s really no need for any further investigation. As you can see, this is an open and shut kind of case.” 

Jack should technically be referred to as “Agent,” but ‘Fleet officers couldn’t seem to wrap their heads around the comparatively informal ranking system. Their gazes passed over the team with barely disguised contempt, lingering on their clothes--the Federation Bureau of Interplanetary Investigations was one of the few organizations in the Federation that didn’t have mandatory uniforms--and refocused on Jack as the only one worth speaking to.

Not that Will minded. The fewer people he had to talk to, the better.

“My sources suggest otherwise,” Jack replied to the captain, whose demeaning smile grew strained.

Will was bad at handling people--living ones, anyway--but at least he was in good company.

Dr. Bloom stepped forward from where she had been standing between Will and Agent Katz, ready, as always, to calm the brewing argument. “We don’t doubt your judgment, captain,” she said gently. “With the sheer loss of life in this situation, there are several procedures we are obligated to run through. It’s just a matter of bureaucracy at this point.”

A lie. But Jack didn’t argue, and the captain’s shoulders slowly relaxed. “Very well. I’ve put together a security team to accompany you onto the vessel. You’ll be beaming aboard, I understand? You’re sure you wouldn’t prefer to shuttle over?”

“The transporter will be fine. Thank you, captain.” Dr. Bloom smiled at them both, and the tension seemed to flee the room.

Some telepaths could do that, with training. Sense the air in the room, know exactly how to negotiate the feelings of those around them to smooth the conversation, avoid the fight.

Not Will. Every addition he made to the tone of a disagreement made the situation exponentially worse.

The captain led them out of the debriefing room, and Will allowed himself one more glance at the stars outside.

\--

They made an unusual group, all told. This was especially true now, with Dr. Bloom and the security team from the _USS Trailblazer_ tagging along.

The clothing of the FBII analysts was eclectic--suits ranging from somberly professional (Jack) to tastefully professional (Dr. Bloom) to cutting edge professionalism (Katz, Zeller) to five-years-out-of-date professionalism (Price) to chewed-on-by-dog unprofessional (Will). The three ‘Fleet officers looked austere next to them, with their black and gold uniforms sharp and stiff as they strode down the corridors leading to the transporter room.

Will squinted at the security team, wondering not for the first time what had inspired Starfleet to change their security uniform colors from red to gold. Although, Will thought cynically as the transporter chief prepared to load their patterns into the buffer, given the design of the killer they hunted, these security officers would likely find their uniforms reversed back to red before they returned to their ship.

\--

“What do you see?” Jack asked Will.

Main engineering on the _USS Zephyr_ was coated in blood, with bodies scattered across the deck. The warp core was still active, casting a dim glow throughout the room and highlighting the gore dripping from every surface.

Jack wasn’t asking about any of that, though. Jack wasn’t asking about what everyone could see; he was asking what _Will_ could see.

Will was standing motionless in the center of the room, the soles of his boots submerged in blood, eyes closed. He could feel the security team on loan from the _Trailblazer_ picking their way around the perimeter of the room, radiating disgust at the macabre scene, at Will for being so immersed in it. The other members of Jack’s team were ignoring him, minds focused instead on collecting their own samples. Dr. Bloom was standing near Jack, watching Will with concern.

But that was now.

In the dark of Will’s mind, a glowing pendulum stood waiting. He imagined letting it drop. He imagined it cutting through the time separating him from what he needed to see.

Forty-three hours ago, the crew of the _Zephyr_ had been alive and unified in confusion, fear, panic, _no, that was impossible, the systems had been working perfectly, we just finished running the diagnostic--secondary systems--some kind of virus--trying to shut down the affected data banks--pain, screaming, panic, pain--_

“Will? What do you see?”

“Not then,” Will gasped. “Further, I need--”

He reached out with his mind, shoved the pendulum back into motion, let it carry him deeper into the past.

Sixty-seven hours ago, the _Zephyr_ had been en route to a rendezvous point at Starbase 310. The emotions of the crew whirled around him--fear at coming so near the Cardassian demilitarized zone, sorrow over news of deaths from a recent Maquis attack, laughter over a joke at a green ensign’s expense--and for a moment, there was the familiar sensation of drowning, the emotions so thick and directionless that they carried him away like a current.

“Will?”

No, not here, not now--

Ninety-one hours ago, the _Zephyr_ was in orbit around Tellar, receiving a shipment of supplies. The ship was buzzing with people, irritation, cultural misunderstandings, trade disputes, the need to change--

_Change what?_

“He can’t hear us, Jack. Do you even understand the harm you’re causing him, every time you ask him to do this?”

“He knows the risks.”

“It’s for his Becoming!” Will screamed, trying to drown out the voices, the feelings, all clamoring for attention in his mind. The effort knocked his breathing out of sync, and he choked on air. Hands grabbed him and held him upright as he collapsed, shaking.

Jack’s voice floated into his ears, calm, but impatient for answers. “Will? Do you know where you are?”

Where was easy. “ _Zephyr_ ,” he reported, voice hoarse.

Dr. Bloom spoke, then, from somewhere to his right, fear humming around her. “That’s right. Do you know _who_ you are?”

That one was always the harder question. He forced his breathing to slow, tried to clear his mind, block out the _other_ that was calling to him. “Will Graham. My name is Will Graham, and I am on the _Zephyr_. It’s Star Date 48327.8.”

He pushed himself upright, and the hands supporting him dropped away. He opened his eyes.

Jack and Dr. Bloom were both looking at him, waiting.

“It’s for his Becoming,” Will said again, more softly. “He’s trying to change, to transform. He planted the virus in the secondary life support systems.”

“Who did, Will?” asked Dr. Bloom. He could feel her mind probing his, searching for signs of sickness. He slammed his mind shut, furious.

“The Dragon,” he snapped, barely aware of what he was saying.

Derision bubbled up from all around him. He felt himself flush in mortification, but when he searched his mind, the answer remained the same. Or almost the same. “At least, that’s what he’s trying to Become. The Dragon.”

They stared at him, uncomprehending, but he knew that he was right, that this was the lead they had been looking for.

“The _Red_ Dragon,” he added thoughtfully, a distant memory flaring. “Do you know any mythology revolving around a red dragon?”

\--

Dr. Alana Bloom--a licensed psychiatrist with years of experience serving as a counselor aboard Starfleet vessels--had joined their team of FBII analysts only recently, after a flurry of media attention surrounding Will had caused certain members of the government to firmly recommend that Jack find someone who could keep Will in hand. Make sure that he didn’t become the kind of crazy they were paid to hunt.

Dr. Bloom treated Jack with respect, but she was fierce and unbending when she felt he was overstepping his ethical boundaries in the pursuit of a killer. She was friendly with Agents Katz, Zeller, and Price, showing admiration for their skills and no sign of disdain for their lack of standard dress.

She was even friendly with Will, making it clear that she wanted their relationship to be as unsullied by politics as possible.

“I’m only here as a stop gap,” she told him in the beginning. “No one is saying you can’t handle this, but the work you do, the way you’re able to sink into the past, that’s extremely dangerous for you and for your health. I’m just here as a protective measure, to be your crutch if you ever find yourself needing someone to lean on.”

It was a nice thought, but no gentle sentiments could erase the reality of the mandatory weekly sessions he had to schedule with her, or the reports she would write and send off to some nameless bureaucrat who would weigh her words against a manual of mental disorders in order to judge his fieldwork performance. In order to judge his sanity.

With that taken into account, nothing could ease their interactions. Will responded to Dr. Bloom with all the displeasure anyone would show when faced with a living collar.

The fact that Dr. Bloom was a Betazoid, one of those species famed for their telepathic and empathic prowess, simply made everything worse.

“It looks like Will was right about the method,” Katz said. Jack had commandeered a small debriefing room on the _Trailblazer_ to hold this meeting, but Will sensed that they were quickly overstaying their welcome, orders or no. Katz pressed a few buttons on the wall panel to display a scrolling block of code on the screen embedded into the wall. Dr. Bloom looked at the code politely but uncomprehendingly; Jack outright ignored it. “We found evidence of a virus planted in the secondary life support systems, as he said. It was programmed to activate during the switch from primary to secondary systems during the routine in-flight maintenance.”

At a nod from Katz, Price took over the report. “Once activated, the virus took control of the systems, barricaded the decks, locked out manual overrides, and started depressurizing the ship, deck-by-deck.” He fiddled with the controls until the code was replaced by a schematic of the _Zephyr_ , the lines mapping the ship growing progressively dim as it displayed the two-dimensional path of the virus as it traveled from the bridge to engineering, decimating the life on every deck in between.

Jack was as dismissive of the ship schematic as he had been of the code. His eyes never left the speakers’ faces. “And then?” he asked, as though waiting for a punchline.

The team traded glances, seemingly confused at the need for further clarification. “And then, given the absence of air pressure,” Zeller volunteered, “everyone on the ship exploded. Basically. Insides-on-the-outside became the new fashion statement of choice.”

And people thought _Will_ was the unstable one. Though, judging by the distaste Will could sense radiating from Dr. Bloom, she wasn’t impressed by Zeller’s turn of phrase.

“I see,” said Jack. Will wondered if he really did. If he could comprehend the agony, the horror, of the past, or if he could only see the see the gruesomeness of the present. “And the… ‘Red Dragon’?”

The agents’ gazes became fixed as they made a concentrated effort not to look at Will. He appreciated it.

“There’s an ancient Terran religion that identifies an incarnation of evil as being a ‘great red dragon,’” Katz volunteered hesitantly. “It was part of prophecies describing the destruction of the planet. A painter from 19th century Earth made a series of paintings depicting scenes of it.” There was a pause. Katz cleared her throat. “A red dragon also appears on the ancient Welsh flag.”

When Katz didn’t seem to be forthcoming with any additional information, Jack glanced between Price and Zeller, as though expecting more.

Price shrugged. “There are some mentions of dragons across Terran cultures of all colors and descriptions. There are also a number of red dragon-like creatures native to other worlds in the Federation. None of them seem to have any connection with the manner of ritual mass slaughter that we’ve observed in these Tooth Fairy murders, though.”

“In other words,” Zeller drawled, “no. No leads on any red dragons.”

Jack sighed and massaged his temples.

Dr. Bloom was frowning at Katz thoughtfully. “Those paintings you mentioned,” she said. “The ones of this evil incarnate. Did you find any images of them?”

Katz shook her head. “Not in the Federation database. It seems that the originals were destroyed centuries ago. There are probably still copies floating around, but I wouldn’t even know where to look.”

“That’s the thing,” said Dr. Bloom, “I think I would.”

Everyone in the room turned to stare at her, even Jack.

“My old mentor, he has a thing for art. He has paintings from, oh, all over the known galaxy. I could swear that I saw something like what you’re describing in his collection. This ‘dragon,’ it’s some kind of giant monster with wings, isn’t it? I think I remember a painting like that, a red monster with its tail winding around a golden woman…”

Katz’s mouth dropped open. “You’re right, that sounds just like the text description of one of the paintings. Uh, it says here, _The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed in Sun_? Or maybe _with_ the sun; I’m a little confused by the different wording used.”

Will felt a shiver of excitement at the title. It sounded strong. It sounded like power.

“Yes, that’s it!” Dr. Bloom smiled at Katz. “I guess my memory isn’t so bad after all.” She turned to Jack. “I don’t know if this is a lead you want to follow up on, but I can contact my mentor and ask him if we could drop by, if you like. He’s settled back on Betazed, now. That’s not even a full day from here, even if we take a transport shuttle.”

Jack drummed his fingers on the polished metal surface of the table. “Will?” he asked.

Will stared down at the table. “I won’t know without seeing the paintings, if then. But it feels… right. It feels important.”

Jack nodded. “Katz, Zeller, Price,” he said, “You three stay on Starbase 310; we’ll have the _Zephyr_ towed in closer so that you can beam aboard directly from the transporters on base. Keep searching for other clues. Dr. Bloom, Will, and I will have the _Trailblazer_ take us as far as Starbase 211; they were supposed to be heading out there anyway. We can take a shuttle from there to Betazed, and be there tomorrow morning. Any questions?” To the resulting silence, Jack barked, “Good. Dismissed.”

As they all filed out of the room, Will watched Dr. Bloom and wondered what kind of ship’s counselor could afford to collect ancient works of art from across the galaxy.

Not one he would like. That, at least, was certain.


	2. Chapter 2

_\--Tattlecrime, Star Date 48411.2--_

_Dr. Hannibal Lecter is a psychotherapist hailing from Betazed. He is famous across the Federation for his publications on interspecies variations in psychopathy--and for his elaborate dinner parties. Dr. Lecter is also known for being the victim of a rare condition among Betazoids which has left him psi-null--that is, unable to project or be the recipient of telepathic or empathic communication. Despite this disadvantage, Dr. Lecter has risen to the top of both his chosen profession and the elite of Betazed--and beyond._

_Just recently, Dr. Lecter was invited to consult on an ongoing investigation headed by Director Jack Crawford of the FBII. Also consulting for this investigation is Special Agent Will Graham, chosen for his investigative role due to his ability to “think like a killer,” and who is known to be unstable and, indeed, “terrifying.”_

_Exactly whom is Dr. Lecter--specialising in the study of the psychopathic mind--investigating?_

\--

Somewhere on a northern continent of lush, luxuriant Betazed was a massive, elaborate dwelling of design that was antiquated but interspaced with tastefully integrated modern accommodations. The decor was shocking to the point of scandal, with macabre paintings and sculptures, including a bouquet of some sort of antlers resting in a vase depicting ancient war scenes. The antlers had to be replicas, of course--it was beyond imagination that they could be real--but the display nevertheless harkened back to primal, vicious histories that most Federation citizens would shy away from, that the Federation’s charter professed itself determined to overcome. This reminder of darkness in the soul made Will’s skin crawl. He told himself that it was out of fear, not excitement. 

Will wasn’t sure what he had expected in the home of Dr. Bloom’s mentor, but this was definitely not it.

They hadn’t met their host yet. “He invited us to meet him in the study,” Dr. Bloom had explained, leading them inside. Their footsteps echoed as they walked down the corridor toward a huge, carved wooden door. Dr. Bloom stepped forward when Jack floundered before it, searching for a panel in the wall with which to announce their presence.

“He’s very old-fashioned in certain ways,” she said, smiling fondly. She folded her hand into a loose fist and knocked it firmly against the door.

“Please, come in,” called a voice from inside. Though muffled by the thick door, the voice carried a soft curl of accent that hinted at the use of a non-native language. _He has his translator turned off_ , Will realized, and felt his stomach clench in interest.

Before Dr. Bloom could stop him, Jack stepped forward and walked right into the door. 

Dr. Bloom made an effort to hide her laughter, but Will could feel the amusement and satisfaction pouring off of her in waves. He raised his eyebrows at her, and she shrugged, biting her lips. He wondered, not for the first time, how much of her mutual respect for Jack existed despite their equally mutual dislike for one another.

When she was calm enough to speak without her mirth being obvious, Dr. Bloom told Jack, voice commiserating, “I did the same thing the first few times I came here.”

Will blinked in surprise. She was telling the truth. “We have a few places that still use these on New Orleans,” he volunteered as Dr. Bloom gestured Jack aside and reached out to operate the manual door handle.

“Oh? I didn’t know you’d lived on Earth, Will,” said Dr. Bloom, stepping into the room beyond and holding the door open for Jack and Will to follow.

“I didn’t.” Will shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably, wishing that he hadn’t spoken. He tried to share as little personal information as possible with Dr. Bloom. She knew enough about him from his file already. “New Orleans II, I mean. Teyljar VI.”

“Alana, I’m so glad you could make it,” their host announced, stepping around a massive wooden desk to greet them. “I hope the door didn’t cause you too much trouble.”

Will’s eyes shot up to trace the teasing smirk on the handsome face in front of them. Of course. Why would someone this wealthy have a ridiculous, antique door other than for the satisfaction of baffling his guests. Something about the expression sent pings of alarm through his mind, though he couldn’t place the source.

“Oh, not at all, Hannibal.” Dr. Bloom smiled at her companions in a show of solidarity. “We were simply admiring the decor.”

When Dr. Lecter looked at her, it was with a sort of fatherly pride. “You’ve become very talented at prevarication,” he said approvingly.

“Excuse me?” said Jack, offended, but Dr. Bloom laughed.

“It can be difficult for Betazoids to interact with other species,” Dr. Lecter explained, gesturing for them to be seated in the visitors’ chairs facing the desk. “Our culture is one of deep and unapologetic honesty--somewhat by necessity, given the strength of our inborn telepathy. Myself excluded, naturally.” He had acquired four lovely, delicate glasses that seemed to sing as they moved through the air, and he placed them on the desk in front of his guests. “Could I tempt you to sample some of our local wine?” He asked, brandishing an unlabelled bottle which he had seemingly produced out of nowhere. “I assure you, it is excellent.”

Dr. Bloom gave a sort of laughing sigh. “I haven’t had this for _years_ , Hannibal.”

“Then it has been far too long,” Dr. Lecter replied, gallantly pouring her glass. “Director Crawford? Agent Graham?”

“How could I refuse?” said Jack, granting the doctor a grudging smile. “I can see that it comes highly recommended.”

“It does indeed.” As he filled Jack’s glass, Dr. Lecter raised his brows at Will in another, silent enquiry. Will shrugged his shoulders, embarrassed, and nodded shortly.

As Dr. Lecter leaned over him to pour the final two glasses, he said, “Thanks.” Despite his intentions, it came out as soft as a whisper.

“Not at all.” Dr. Lecter carried his own glass to his seat on the far side of the desk and settled there, looking at them thoughtfully. “And so, what can I do for you, Director? I’ve been led to understand that you would like me to consult for you on a case.”

Jack’s head shot up, and he turned to Dr. Bloom, furious, but even Jack could see that her expression as she stared at Dr. Lecter was too full of shock for the information to have come from her.

Will snorted. “Sounds like you’ve been reading _Tattlecrime_ , Doctor,” he drawled, taking a sip of his wine. It was delicious.

“I must confess that I follow many news sources, including some of the less scrupulous ones.” Dr. Lecter smiled, and Will realized with a start what had been bothering him since he’d entered the room.

“Lounds wrote that you’re psi-null, and you basically confirmed it while you were getting the wine,” Will said, letting his eyes trace over the doctor, the lines of his suit, the slant of his shoulders, the sharp curves of his cheekbones. “Doesn’t that make it difficult to hold a practice on Betazed?”

“Will,” hissed Dr. Bloom, horrified. Anger, humiliation, curiosity, they were flowing from Dr. Bloom and Jack, but the air around Dr. Lecter was silent and calm.

They had a point, Will knew. That had been rude. Nosy. Still, “What happened to deep and unapologetic honesty?” he muttered.

Dr. Lecter, from what Will could observe--from what he let Will see, and the implied mystery made Will feel heady with excitement--was not overly bothered by Will’s question. “It can, and it has,” he replied calmly. “I spent my youth living on many worlds, experiencing many cultures, in part to escape the consequences of my… _disadvantage_.” He smiled ruefully. “Nevertheless, the time came when I felt the draw of home once more.”

It could have been the truth. Maybe it was. Or maybe it was all a lie. Maybe it was a twist of lies and truth. Will had no way of knowing.

He took another sip of his wine, trying to distract himself into calm.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever felt so invigorated in his life.

Jack cleared his throat. “We’re not exactly here for a consult, necessarily,” he said. “We have reason to believe that a case may relate to an ancient Terran artwork,” he had to force the final words out. He was disgusted, Will knew, with how ridiculous it all sounded, but he had been in the business for long enough to know that motives weren’t always logical. “Dr. Bloom thought she remembered it from your collection. _The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed in the Sun_. Or _The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun_. We haven’t been able to verify the title, and sources seem to vary.”

Dr. Lecter looked at them thoughtfully. “Yes, they would vary, I suppose,” he said. “They are each the correct title for a different painting. Both are from the Blake collection. You wish to see the paintings? Mine are only copies of copies, I’m afraid. I believe the originals were destroyed some time ago.”

“A copy should be fine,” Jack said firmly, though Will wasn’t sure that was true. He needed to be able to see what the Dragon had seen.

Dr. Lecter stood up. “Excellent,” he said. “Please, follow me.”

Dr. Lecter’s collection of artworks was as enormous as Dr. Bloom had implied. It was on display throughout the palatial home, with additional wings which appeared to be dedicated galleries.

The pieces of the _Great Red Dragon_ collection were hanging side-by-side in one of the galleries. When Dr. Lecter showed them in, Jack and Dr. Bloom stopped near the doorway to take in the whole display, but Will kept walking until he was standing directly in front of one of the paintings. He couldn’t stop himself. He was shaking.

“Yes,” he said. “This, yes, this one.”

He felt Dr. Bloom come up beside him. He was aware of her emotions--nervous, conscious of her mentor observing her and perhaps weighing her skill as a practitioner, but conscious too of her duty to serve as Will’s collar--but they were muted, background noise, next to the roaring coming from the painting.

“ _The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun_ ,” Dr. Bloom observed softly. “What does it mean to the Tooth Fairy, Will?”

“Not the Tooth Fairy,” Will snapped, and Dr. Bloom took a step back, startled. “The Dragon. He’s the Dragon.”

“The Dragon,” Jack repeated, stepping up beside them. “Is he this dragon, Will?” He gestured to the painting.

“Yes,” said Will. “Yes.” He was shaking harder, now. The Dragon hadn’t been here, in this room, this air had never touched his mind. But this painting, the shapes and colors, they were what had been glowing in his thoughts as he had walked the decks of the _Zephyr_ , as he had orchestrated its crew’s destruction.

“Fascinating,” said Dr. Lecter. Will wondered if Dr. Lecter was looking at Will when he said that. Will hoped that he wasn’t. Will hoped that he was. “Who, then, is the woman clothed with the sun?”

Will stiffened. “I--I don’t--she’s--” He couldn’t stop shaking.

“It’s okay, Will,” Dr. Bloom soothed. “Let’s take a step back, okay?” She tried to lead him away from the painting, but Jack’s hand landed on Will’s shoulder, heavy and unyielding.

“Where is he now, Will?” Jack asked. “Where is he going next?”

Will shook his head, pain shooting through his temples. “I don’t--the painting.”

Jack and Dr. Bloom exchanged glances. “What about the painting, Will?”

“He needs it, he has it burned into his mind, he has pictures of it on his computer, but he needs the actual painting, he needs to see it all the time.”

“The actual painting was destroyed, Will, remember?” said Dr. Bloom gently.

“Yes, I know, but some of the copies, they’re like this, right? I mean, they’re not just copies, they’re, they’re--real, like his digital pictures aren’t.” He looked at Dr. Lecter, pleading with him to understand the question that Will didn’t know how to articulate.

Dr. Lecter tilted his head to one side, dark eyes locked on Will. “It is not a popular painting, these days,” he said. “While I’m sure there are other private collectors, such as myself, the only public display I know of is in the Brooklyn Museum, on Earth. It once housed the original, and it now houses a copy. It is a painting of the original piece, and it is what I used to paint the piece you see before you now.”

“You did this?” Will asked, looking between the painting and the doctor in surprise. “It’s perfect!”

Dr. Lecter’s lips curled into a smile. “While I appreciate the sentiment, perhaps you might hold your judgment until you’ve seen my inspiration.”

“Will, where do we go from here?” Jack interjected. The air was thick with his frustration, and Will wrinkled his nose slightly.

“What does the Brooklyn Museum look like?” Will asked Dr. Lecter. “Do you have any photos?”

“Not personally, I’m afraid. There may be some in the archives.”

Will chewed his lower lip in thought and felt a thrill when Dr. Lecter’s eyes flickered down to watch. “It could be a private collector,” he murmured, looking at the painting again. “But maybe… He’d need it to be as close to the original as possible. Jack, is there a way we could get a copy of the visitor list to the Brooklyn Museum? Everyone for the last few months. He’ll need to see the painting often, and more frequently the closer he gets to his Becoming. The visitor logs should give us the names of any especially frequent visitors, and we can track their movements from there, see if any of them happened to be in the same sectors as the crime scenes at the same times.”

Will felt dizzy with exhilaration. It felt like this was it. He felt like the Dragon was so close he could touch him.

“I’ll contact the Museum, see what we can find out.” Jack nodded to Dr. Lecter. “Thank you for having us, Doctor. You’ve been a great help to our investigation.”

“It has been my pleasure, Director,” said Dr. Lecter pleasantly.

As they left the behemoth of a building behind them, Dr. Bloom looked at Will meaningfully from her seat beside him in the transport vehicle. “What do you think of Hannibal, Will?”

For a moment, Will panicked that he hadn’t disguised his interest, his attraction, well enough. But then, buried in Dr. Bloom’s nervousness and determination, he found the true reason for her question. “I already have enough of you _headshrinks_ digging around in my brain as it is,” he snapped. “Why, did you think you needed a second opinion on my sanity?”

Dr. Bloom glanced quickly at Jack. He was fully immersed in his conversation on his COMM. “Not your sanity, Will,” she said softly, reaching out to pat his wrist. “I’m worried about your well-being. This job isn’t good for you. You empathize too deeply with both the criminals and their victims for it to be healthy. I know that your job is important to you, that you feel the need to help people, but there are other ways you can do that. You know that, right?”

He sighed, letting her compassion roll over him. “I do know. It’s just--hard. There’s a lot of pressure to continue.” He didn’t look at Jack. Neither did Dr. Bloom. 

Her fingers wrapped around his wrist more tightly. “There doesn’t have to be,” she said firmly, but then she pulled away and turned the conversation to a less combative topic--Dr. Lecter’s absurd taste in ancient architecture.

It wasn’t the first time Will had been party to Dr. Bloom’s quick wit and friendly jokes, but it was the first time he let himself laugh with her.


	3. Chapter 3

_\--Tattlecrime, Star Date 48512.1--_

_The Tooth Fairy, the killer who for months has been devastating the Federation by targeting and destroying entire crews of Starfleet vessels, has finally been stopped in his rampage--but at what cost? Director Jack Crawford of the Federation Bureau of Interplanetary Investigations gave a statement to the press just hours ago, defending not only Special Agent Will Graham’s use of deadly force in apprehending the killer, but also the unstable behavior displayed by Graham over the course of this investigation. Despite Crawford’s defense, Graham has been suspended from duty pending investigation. Personally, this reporter feels much safer now that the killer-- _both_ killers--are out of our lives._

\--

As Will made his way back down the echoing halls of Dr. Lecter’s extravagant house, Will wondered what he was even doing back here, two months after he had met the doctor and five weeks after Will had destroyed his own career.

Dr. Bloom had pushed him to come, it was true.

“You need help, Will,” she had told him gently. “Surely the diagnosis proves that.” 

“Encephalitis is a _physiological_ condition, not a psychological one, Dr. Bloom,” he had snapped back, tired of his illness being constantly thrown in his face. “I fail to see how weekly conversations about my feelings would have made any difference.”

Dr. Bloom’s expression had been severe, but the tendrils of emotion leaking from her had been gentle, kind. “We might have recognized the problem for what it was a little earlier on, if you had been honest with me. If you had told me about the… _pharmaceuticals_ you were dosing yourself with, whenever the world around you started to go hazy.”

Will had clenched his jaw, refusing to allow her to make him feel guilty for being _sick._

Dr. Bloom had continued, “As it as, we’re lucky we caught it when we did. I haven’t heard of a case of something like encephalitis requiring a full three days of post-treatment recovery for, oh, a century or more.”

She had looked to him, waiting for a response of any kind, any acknowledgement of the severity of his past condition, but Will had remained rebelliously silent.

Dr. Bloom’s lips had tightened briefly, and the gentleness emanating from her had become tinged with frustration. “I’m sorry that it happened like this, but this suspension may be a good thing. Jack can’t force you to come in to the field, now, so you can spend this time on yourself, learning what _you_ need. And you’re so out of practice listening to your own needs and wants; a guide could be very helpful.”

“A guide?” Will had sneered.

“A counselor, yes. We both know what sort of person I mean, Will, but we also have very different ideas about their purpose. We’re not here to pick at your brain, call you crazy, and then send you off to an asylum, which is what you seem to think. We want to help you.”

“And why Dr. Lecter? I thought it’s _your_... ‘help’ I’m legally mandated to accept, not _his_.”

Dr. Bloom had sighed. “You know why, Will. We’re not a good fit, are we?”

Will had kept his mouth stubbornly closed, but he had felt the guilt rolling in, and it had been just as much his as it was hers.

“No, no, none of that,” she had said, smiling ruefully. “I’m considering referral to Hannibal--pending your agreement, of course--because I think the two of you can understand one another in a way that I can’t. I’m a telepath born to a species of telepaths. You’re an empath born to a species whose members typically have extremely low psionic levels; Hannibal is a psi-null member of a species of telepaths. Surely you can see how you might have experiences that overlap, experiences that I don’t have.”

Now, as Will reached the carved wooden door of the study, he wondered what he wanted out of this meeting. Dr. Lecter was… different. Different from anyone he’d ever met before. He made Will feel anxious and excited and wild. He made Will feel as though feeling that was okay.

But all of that might change if he took on Dr. Lecter as his “guide.”

Will raised his hand and knocked sharply on the door.

Rather than calling for him to enter, this time Dr. Lecter opened the door himself and ushered Will inside. He offered wine again--a different wine--and sat down on the other side of the desk with his own glass cradled in his hands, eyeing Will with interest.

“Tell me, Agent Graham, what brings you back to my humble abode?”

Will couldn’t help but snort at that, almost spilling his drink. The opulence around him was _suffocating_. How had he managed to say “humble” with a straight face? The doctor’s mental silence was throwing him off again. It felt good.

“Oh, you know,” he said, once he’d steadied himself a little. “Just making the rounds. Dr. Bloom handed me a list of potential counselors that was longer than my dissertation, so I thought I’d start with the names I at least recognized.”

“I am honored to be among those considered,” Dr. Lecter answered mildly. “May I ask why the search? Have you experienced any problems with Alana?”

“No, I--she’s fine. It’s fine. We’re fine. It’s not her, it’s the whole therapy nonsense. It doesn’t work on me.”

“I see,” said Dr. Lecter, his face a blank mask to match his mind. “In that case, surely I am no better able to assist you than is my colleague.”

“That’s certainly my opinion.” Perhaps that was too harsh. “She said that we--that she and I--that we’re not a good _fit_.”

“Do you disagree?”

“No, not exactly. I just feel as though we have different… goals. I feel as though I always have different goals from my counselors.”

“And what do you perceive their goals to be?”

“I don’t know. To publish papers on my _curious ailment_. To diagnose me as something that needs _in-patient_ care, so that they can have me in a glass box and observe my movements.”

“And your goals?”

“My--” Will chuckled humorlessly, “my _goals_ are just to get through every day without my _brain melting out of my ears_.”

“Has that been a problem in the past?”

Will stared at Dr. Lecter. He was looking back at Will expectantly, as though that had been a serious question. 

“...No,” Will said finally. “Uh, not literally.” He squinted at the Betazoid seated primly across from him, but the doctor seemed to be accepting his words at face value.

He shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably. For the first time, Will started to wonder if maybe this could actually work. If Dr. Lecter could actually help him. If Will could actually stomach the thought of Dr. Lecter psychoanalyzing him.

“I, uh. I had encephalitis recently. Very,” he cleared his throat. “Very recently. I actually had a giant meltdown during the confrontation with Dolarhyde--the so-called ‘Tooth Fairy’--and now I’ve been suspended. Although,” he shot a quick grin at Dr. Lecter, “you probably read all about that on _Tattlecrime_ , eh, Doctor?”

Dr. Lecter returned his grin with a small one of his own. “I did indeed. One always must wonder as to the veracity of such sources, of course.”

Will huffed out a laugh. “Of course.” He stared into the delicate wine glass in his hands, now half empty. He hadn’t even noticed that he had been drinking. “So, Dr. Bloom had me taken to--if you can believe it--the headquarters of Starfleet medical. She bullied them into running a whole battery of tests, and what do you know, they found that my brain was on fire. Still not literally.” He flashed another grin at Dr. Lecter and took a sip of wine.

“She sounds to have been a very dedicated counselor. And I have not yet heard any rumors going around through the academic circles about any new publications from her.”

“No, that’s true. I don’t think she’d be _unethical_ about it, though that’s not a judgment I’m willing to extend to every psychiatrist I’ve run into. It’s just a feeling that I get when I talk to her, sometimes. Her interest suddenly shifts from patient to lab-rat.”

“You believe it is impossible to feel both clinical and academic interest in a patient?”

“I believe that if the interest includes the academic, their focus stops being what they can do for me and becomes what I can do for them.”

“Can the relationship not be reciprocal? They help you, you help them?”

“Then what happens when their academic interests would be better served by seeing what happens when I get worse, rather than what happens when I get better?”

They sat in silence for a moment, both staring at one another. Will felt--he didn’t know how he felt. Nauseated, maybe. Exhilarated, definitely.

Finally, Dr. Lecter said, “An interesting dilemma, to be sure, and one which as been answered both ways in the past, despite one decision being the clear ethical winner.”

“So you see the reasons for my lack of trust, then.” Will set his empty glass back down on the table. Dr. Lecter immediately stood to refill it.

“Perhaps,” said Dr. Lecter as he returned to his seat, pausing to top off his own glass. “But I think we have become a little side-tracked from the original question. What are your goals in therapy, Agent Graham?”

“What?”

“Surely they are no longer that your brain will melt out of your ears,” the doctor replied, a gleam of laughter in his dark eyes. “After all, that problem has been dealt with, has it not?”

Will flushed. Picked up his now-full wine glass. Set it back down. Fiddled with his sleeve. “I don’t know. I guess I just don’t like the invasive nature of it. I can’t even be as honest with myself as they’re asking me to be with them.”

Dr. Lecter smiled at him. “Is it not said that it is a good practice, being wholly honest with oneself?”

Will scoffed. “I think you mean, ‘being entirely honest with oneself is a good exercise,’” he said, not hiding his sneer. “Five hundred years later, and you damn _psychiatrists_ are still quoting Freud?”

Dr. Lecter’s eyebrows rose. “In fact, I was referencing a popular Betazoid philosopher--admittedly, one who lived nearly a thousand years ago.”

Will stopped his nervous movements, turning red. “I--I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “That was very rude of me, assuming that you meant--I mean, I promise I know that my own culture isn’t the end-all.”

“Not at all,” Dr. Lecter replied easily. “How fortunate it is, Agent Graham, that our cultures should be in such close accord on this topic.”

Will couldn’t help it, then. He broke his own rule of strict avoidance and stared into Dr. Lecter’s dark eyes. The expression on his face was amused, certainly, but his eyes were as silent as the rest of him, not a glimmer of feeling escaping from their depths.

Will knew of species that were psi-null, with minds no telepaths could invade--he had bartered with Ferengi before, had even encountered a Breen privateer. But in those cases, though he couldn’t touch their thoughts, he could still feel the hum of their emotions. For Will, who had spent his life struggling desperately to stay afloat in a flood of emotions that were not his own, this silence was new. It was terrifying. It was thrilling.

He wanted to bury himself in the quiet of Dr. Lecter’s mind, to lap at the calm until it was absorbed into his being, a piece of Hannibal Lecter that was inextricable from Will Graham.

He wanted to tease secrets out of Dr. Lecter, secrets of his body and his mind, truths of his past and hopes for his future.

He wanted to spend the rest of his life peeling off Dr. Lecter’s masks layer by layer, using his Broca’s and Wernicke’s areas and not his paracortex.

He _wanted_.

“I--need to go,” Will said, voice harsh. He stood up hurriedly and made his way to the exit, trying not to run.

“Of course,” Dr. Lecter said, mild disappointment apparent in the tilt of his eyebrows, the thinning of his lips. He moved to stand beside Will, letting his hand rest on the elaborately cast handle that was used to open his antique door. “I hope that I will have the opportunity to see you again soon?”

“You can’t,” Will blurted. He saw the surprise and hurt on Dr. Lecter’s face, muted but present, and he continued, “I mean, you can’t, _you can’t_ be my psychiatrist. My counselor, whatever you are. You can’t. It’s not--okay.”

Dr. Lecter didn’t speak for a long moment. Will squeezed his eyes shut in frustration-- _mortification_ \--that he didn’t know how to say this, how to feel this.

“I understand, Agent Graham,” said Dr. Lecter, voice level. “But if I am not permitted to know you in a professional capacity, am I also to be denied access to you privately?”

Will cleared his throat, clenching and unclenching his fists. He forced his eyes back up to meet Dr. Lecter’s. “You should call me Will,” he whispered.

Will guessed at the emotions he saw flicker over Dr. Lecter’s face, lightning-fast. Surprise, probably, and delight. And there, in the curve of his mouth and the slant of his jaw, that was definitely smugness.

“Will,” Dr. Lecter repeated slowly, letting the drawl of the name carry the sensation of a victory won. “I do hope you will join me for dinner this evening?”

A shiver of anticipation crawled down Will’s spine. He felt a little heady with victory himself. “I would be _delighted_ , Dr. Lecter.”

Dr. Lecter opened the door, then, and bowed Will out. “Please, Will,” he said, a smirk playing on his lips, “call me Hannibal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there ends my incredibly self-indulgent space!Hannibal fic. I hope no one was expecting, you know, a plot or anything.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the _Enterprise _opening theme, Faith of the Heart.__


End file.
